after dark
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: ~COMPLETE~ The consequences Clarice faces having received another letter from Dr. Lecter. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. after dark

_after__ dark_

As children we are led to believe, with unwavering uncertainty, that there will always be a rainbow at the end of every storm. Whether the storm is one of nature's design, or one that we weather in our personal lives, there will be a rainbow. As the Sunday school teacher cheerfully intones, even as she doubts it herself, a rainbow is a smile from god. It his assurance to us all that things can and will get better. Rainbows and olive branches go hand in hand in Sunday school. Whatever is bad in our lives and the world, it can only get better.

Sometime during the process of growing up we lose that blind acceptance. We begin to doubt the unwavering existence of rainbows as bad things happen, and then get worse. To further abandon the innocence we had, we lean towards something that can bear the burden of proof. Science tells us that there have to be precise conditions present for rainbows. The sun at a certain angle to the water droplets, which have to be of a certain size, all combining factors to create that spray of color that washes across the sky. Yet, we yearn for that age of wonderment and complete unquestioning acceptance and we find it as we water our flowers and hedges, and turn, just right, to catch the rainbows of our lost youths in that garden spray. If for but a moment we can return, and not question the believability of it all.

There is no rainbow in the battleship grey interior of the office here. Nothing to remind one of the lost childhood. Not that this childhood was a happy one to remember, but it was a childhood, nonetheless. But there is that unwavering acceptance there, permeating the office. Permeating her as she sits, hunched at the desk, fingertips pressing against the copier paper no longer warm from the Xerox machine down the hall. It is the fourth or fifth generation copy, and the words and precise script are reflective of that. Blurring here, jumping there, no longer the beauteous thing it was when it first came into her possession. Blind acceptance as she reads what she has already committed to memory, which she could recite if prompted. But she cannot get the same feeling from the lifeless recitation as she does from reading the words that she knew were his.

It could have been written in fire or blood for all she cared. It was not the implement used that held her attention so raptly, but the man who wielded that pen. And the blind faith that he spoke nothing more than the truth here. In that childish moment, Clarice Starling truly believes that he never would call on her. That the world was more interesting with her in it, contrary to her own personal beliefs. 

Peers and others would call her foolish for this blind faith. Faith is not to be put into a man who has killed fourteen people, that they knew of. A slight crack in the foundation of faith, a tremor that causes it to shift momentarily. That they knew of, there could be possibly more to be found, and more yet to come. A shiver as she tries to reclaim the solid footing in the assurance that he will not call on her. No, perhaps there will be more, but she will not be one of them. He has made a promise to her.

A second tremor, this one more powerful, causing larger breaks in her acceptance. How much trust could be put into the words or actions of a madman? He willingly lied to them to get his way. The means to an end. The means costing five people their lives, for having the unfortunate chance of being in what could be called the wrong place at the wrong time. The end: his freedom. What if she had been there to stop him? Would she be currently laying in a casket, being laid in the cold hands of the earth like her father before her? Her father had had faith in that shotgun until something had actually happened. Faith was a temporary thing.

What was it that he had said? She pauses in her reading, tilting her head back to the ceiling and looking up, remembering. Typhoid and swans. Sure. The blind acceptance led one to believe the good of it all, and to forget and forego the bad. A questioning of faith such as this nearly crumbles the foundation, and the façade trembles around her. He was a sociopath, he felt nothing for no one. There was no compassion here, no assurances. If he wanted to come after her, he would, promises or no. It was as simple as that.

But, there always seemed to be a but these days. Some argument from herself not wanting to give up the unwavering assurances, no matter how patently false they may turn out to be. It serves to prop up the walls of the façade, presenting something sturdy on the outside, but tremulous on the inside. He could stand true to his promise, he wouldn't call on her. But where did that leave her?

There was a taste of Hannibal Lecter that she could not rinse from her mouth. Something not quite pleasant, but not quite horrible. For all that she saw, he saw more. She saw something beyond the killer in him, saw beyond the brutally intelligent and cunning man. There was something else, and that is what left the taste in her mouth. Something that she didn't want to see there, but in the same turn, desperately wanted him to voice to her.


	2. all of me

_…but in the night, the darkness breathes…_

_all__ of me_

_If life were but a fairy tale,_ thought Clarice as she stepped from the Mustang and stood momentarily in the rapidly darkening night. The moon, full and round, was slipping in and out of a curtain of clouds. Angry thunderheads were barely visible in the near distance and the coming storm was tangible in the air. She stood there, looking at the impending storm, lightning dancing across the starlit skies. There would be no rainbows in the darkness of the night.

If only life were a fairy tale, there'd be a rainbow to greet her when the tumult had passed, a prince at her side to protect her in the meantime. She would have a clear concept of right and wrong, an innocent air to guide her through the world. And everything would turn out fine.

We grow accustomed to these tales of perfect life from the first late night murmurings from our mothers when we begin our life outside the womb. Her voice carrying us off on soft waves, and later, when we begin to understand her words, her voice carrying us into storied realms. There is always a prince or handsome knight to slay the dragons and rescue the princesses in fairy tales. There is always a damsel in distress, who, unlike many reality-based damsels, is actually in need of rescuing. There are no hidden agendas, no tabloids ruining reputations. There's only truth, light, and innocence.

It is the innocence we find we miss most. We take it for granted until we become embittered once we discover the world awaiting us is not the one foretold to us. We still yearn for the handsome prince to ride up to us on his white stallion, sweep us off our feet and ride off together into the sunset. There would always be someone there to protect us from life's storms.

There'd be no doubt in the feelings one woman felt for one man.

Clarice scowled as she dropped her well-worn purse to the floor as that thought crept into her head. Dr. Lecter was no knight in shining armor. He was a sociopath, a killer; a manipulative bastard who had used her as a means to an end. Her mood had seriously gone awry during the drive home from Quantico. No longer did she envision saccharin-sweet rainbows and blue skies. She had no more illusions about what he really was, no more blind acceptance. But she wavered on the believability of his promise to her.

She crossed the kitchen, feeling the crunch of spilt sugar under the soles of her shoes. Delia would have killed her for leaving the spill there this morning, but fortunately Delia was on vacation. Someday Clarice would travel, spend days basking in the sun on some beach with her lover by her side. She snorted in derision as her pessimistic attitude blew the thought away. Right. With familiarity of routine, Clarice removed the tumbler and the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet. Both were set on the counter briefly, as her course was reversed and she went to the fridge. A can of Coke was removed, set in the tumbler on the counter, and hefted. The can and glass in one hand, the Jack in the other. 

She set her load on the coffee table as a strong gust of wind rattled the windows. There was a storm coming, and she planed to meet it head-on. Her heels were kicked off, sent flying across the living room. She heard one clatter in the dining room, but paid no mind as she tugged on the pop-top of the Coke. Moments later she was lifting her nightly drink to her lips, listening to the wind whip around her house.

She looked into the brown liquid a moment, eyeing the carbonated bubbles as they rose. The same question continued to chase itself round in her mind, just as it had when she had first received the latter two weeks ago. A courteous letter, inquires as to her health and life. How was work going, Clarice? No problems catching criminals, I trust. It was as if he were tormenting her with the fact that he alone had escaped her justice so far. No, not almost; he was. Pure and simple. He saw her as a plaything. Nothing more than a mouse on a string that the hungry cat would bat at before it finally settled down for its meal.

A sip of the Jack and Coke. If he did come back, breaking his promise, would he still find the world more interesting with her in it? Or would he end his fascination with her and dispatch with her life with no more than a blink of the eye? She shivered at the thought of dying at his hands, seeing her blood pour forth from wounds he had inflicted. There was something much more frightening than death which he could offer her. 

She had never forgotten the spark that had jumped between them in Memphis. The absolute thrill of his touch, even the slightest of touches. She felt herself flush at the memory. How could someone so inherently _evil_ spawn such a reaction in her? Clarice stifled a yawn and shifted position on the couch. God, today had been too long. She blamed her exhaustion on the alcohol and how many hours of overtime she had been putting in. She took another sip of the drink, closing her eyes. No, it wasn't as if she _loved_ him or anything.

*~*~*~*

The night enfolds him as carefully and tenderly as the warmth of a summer's day. Pitch clings to him, flowing out behind him like a cloak. Lightning illuminates briefly his slim silhouette. It is the only light that pierces his presence, as he takes great care to avoid the pools of awkward amber light spilled by the mercury vapor street lamps. The storm is approaching.

Wind swirls the dirt and leaves from the gutters around his silent feet. He is but a ghost making passage here. Time is of no essence to him. He has waited half a lifetime for her, and he is gladly prepared to wait another lifetime and a half if she demands it. She is but his goddess. 

Another crack from the approaching storm, a freshening wind has arisen, carrying the foretelling of rain on it. His gait remains the same, unhurried, calm, but with a purpose. He seems to move at the speed of the approaching storm, with the same intent and barely contained ferocity as the snaky lightning dancing through the clouds above him. Yet another flash reveals his eyes to the night, red, pupils large and black, red sparks pinwheeling in towards the center of the abyss. The eyes of a monster are these eyes.

His destination is near, and he considers it, approaching the short concrete driveway, taking in the small but immaculate yard, the worn mailbox and the oil stain on the concrete with one long, roving glance. There are no lights on in the house, not even a porch light burning in the night. The first fat raindrops fall as he approaches the door. Within moments, as the perimeters of the storm encroach overhead, he is inside. All motion ceases, he barely breathes for the thrill of stepping inside here. 

With one deep breath he is assured. She is here, now all that remains is whether she will accept him or not. Slow steps through the darkened hallway, following his instinct, great red eyes burning into the night. Thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows in the frame but stilling as its reverberations reach the strong foundation and cease their tremors. Silent steps pass across the linoleum as he approaches the living room where she awaits. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter pauses as he comes into the room, looking down on the distasteful scene. His goddess lies prone on the couch, head tossed back over one arm of the couch, fingers trailing on the carpet inches from a spilt tumbler. His nostrils flare as he scents the air, her essence mingled with the remnants of the Jack Daniels and Coke that have long seeped into the carpet fibers. She does not stir as he crosses the threshold, silence as he crosses the carpeted realm.

Elegant as ever, he drops into an old La-Z-Boy recliner catty corner to the couch she occupies. Settled here, he watches her.

*~*~*~*


	3. the pale horse

_And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him._

_-Revelation 7:8_

_the pale horse_

                She was serene before him, beautiful in her restless sleep.  He watched her eyelids flutter at the crack of thunder, then close tight again, as if to disavow the interruption of her solitude.  Her hand clenched into a fist, curling up from the floor to be pressed tightly against her chest.  There was a shudder of breath that escaped her lips as she did so, and he was curious.

                He pushes himself half out of the old recliner, hearing the springs give a groan of protest.  There was another shudder and he peered closer at her, trying to discern.  Her fist clenched and unclenched, and a sob finally escaped her parted lips.  Dr. Lecter was fully out of his chair and by her side in time to see the first tears spring forth.  

                There was a flash of indecision, the first he could remember experiencing in quite a long time.  As quick as it had come, it was gone.  He bent his head to her cheek, bringing her head gently up to meet his lips with a hand tangled in her hair.  With profound gentleness he kissed away the tears that were now streaming down her cheek.  Against his face he felt the flutter of her eyelashes, the long moment when her arms began to twine around him.  A flash of lightning permeated the scene, and their eyes met.

                Thunder shook the house to its foundations just as the contact shook Clarice.  With sudden strength she shoved Hannibal backwards off the couch, watching as he slammed ungracefully into the glass-topped coffee table.  She backpedaled on the couch, pushing over the arm behind her and finding footing on the carpet.  A wild voice in her head screamed at her to run, to flee and to alert the authorities to his presence.

                _Help!  There's a cannibal in my house!_

                To her amazement Clarice was shaking as she found her balance and looked up to where her intruder was rising in a small shower of shattered glass.  He looked at one palm, cut deep across the middle, and pulled a long sliver of glass from it.  Clarice winced as he held the object up for examination, turning it in the weak light from the windows as if examining a precious jewel.  She managed a breath, and his eyes settled on hers.  They were black in the lack of light in the room, black pits with crimson highlights that reminded her of the stories of fire and brimstone she'd heard when she was young.  There was an odd hunger in those eyes.

                He was stepping from the wreckage of the coffee table, moving slowly towards her.  Random tinkles of glass followed in his wake.  His cut hand was cupped, pooling the blood until it was full to overflowing and small drops began to spill over to fall from his hand.  Clarice watched the blood as it fell, following gravity's course and staining her carpet.  The thought occurred to her struck her as odd.  Blood was notoriously hard to get out of things, especially white carpet.  There was an urge to scream 'Now look what you've done!' at him.  By that time he was standing before her, less than a foot from her.  His eyes were redder now that he was closer and Clarice felt an urge to draw back.  She had never been afraid of him when he was in the dungeon, not like this.

                He closed the distance even further and Clarice felt the scent of fresh blood pushing its way inside her nostrils.  Perhaps because of her alcohol consumption the smell nauseated her.  Before he could take another step she turned and ran, heading down the hall in a headlong rush.  She made it to the bathroom before anything happened, and threw herself on her knees before the toilet.  As she retched she had the feeling that she looked prone, praying before some ancient goddess' altar.  After the last of the dry heaves she levered herself up, hands resting on the toilet seat.  Turning to the sink she ran water in it, bending her head to the faucet's stream and rinsing her mouth.  Clarice hadn't realized how parched her mouth had become until the water touched it and seemed to be immediately absorbed.  She gulped greedily, until she remembered there was someone else she needed to attend to.  

                Clarice stepped from the bathroom, wiping her arm across her mouth, looking about for the wanted man that had invaded her home.  How long had he been there before she awoke to find him?  She was an FBI agent, her house wasn't the one that was supposed to get broken into.  She came back down the hallway to fid him emerging from the kitchen, a hand towel wrapped around his injured hand.  He was silent, as silent as he had ever been in the course of their acquaintance.  Clarice was surprised to hear her own voice in the darkness.

                "You said you'd never call on me again."  It disgusted Clarice that there was a tinge of fear in her voice, making it slightly higher than normal.  It also came out in little more than a whisper, she sounded like a wounded child.  He stopped his forward moment and looked at her, bringing his eyes up from his hand.

                "Some promises need to be broken, Special Agent Starling."

                She snorted.  She couldn't help it, this man, telling her about promises that must be broken.  Before she could say anything he spoke again.

                "You yourself made a false promise, all those years ago in the dungeon.  You promised me books and trees, a trip to the Hoof and Mouth Animal Research Center.  I suppose you could call this tit for tat."

                There was a small, tight smile on his lips as he said this and Clarice glared.  She had done that because Crawford told her to, and now he was turning it against her.  She held her silence close, waiting for his next move.

                He again came towards her, closing the distance as Clarice pressed herself against the folding door of the closet.  She felt the knob press hard into the small of her back.  If she could get into the closet, she could find her salvation there.  Her fingers splayed out across the wood, finding the edge and slipping in there, ready to pull the door open.  He approached like a lion, watching his prey, having now trapped it.  Clarice wondering if he could smell the fear on her.

                He stopped at a respectable distance from her, tilting his head as he held his hands in front of him.  So still.  "I trust you received my letter."  A bland statement, not a question she was meant to answer.  Her fingers wedged themselves further into the crack.  "And I trust you shared it with your colleagues at the FBI.  I'm sure Crawford truly enjoyed it."  There was a predatory smile crossing his face, prompting a reaction from Clarice.

                "You did that just to get a rise out of him, Dr. Lecter."

                "Did I?"  feigned innocence and he took a step forward, crossing the line of civilities.

                "Yes, you did."  She could feel the backside of the door with her fingertips now.  Splinters bit into her flesh but she ignored the pinpricks of pain.  "I'm sure you have other _diversions in life, Dr. Lecter.  Why come here just to see if I received your letter?"_

                A chuckle.  "Agent Starling, you truly believe I came here only for that?  You're more naïve than I remember you to be."

                She drew a shuddering breath as she felt her courage run straight out of her.  "Then what do you want?"  

                Swiftly he came to her, grasping her shoulder with his one good hand and pressing her back against the door.  She couldn't tear her eyes from his as his head dipped, and his lips captured hers.  Clarice could feel and hear the blood rush in her ears, felt her body respond to the kiss, pressing forward against him.  Even as she did, her hand was tugging on the door, and she heard the creak of the hinges as she did so.  All she needed was a few inches…

                And she had it.  She never broke the kiss as her hand snaked back inside the gloom of the closet, immediately seeking what se was after.  The grip felt rough and heavy in her hand, the skate tape rubbing roughly against her palm.  The gun was always loaded and the hammer cocked.  She remembered the Felicina Fish Market, being asked if she always went around with her gun cocked.  Yes, she did, and there was a reason why.

                She brought the .45 out the slim opening, careful not to bang it on either wall or wood.  He was beginning to lessen the kiss now, pulling back ever so slightly.  Clarice blinked, and felt a sudden pain as she brought the gun up.  Before she could decide not to, she had pressed it into the doctor's abdomen, the sudden pressure causing his eyes to fly open and burn into hers.

                Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes as she looked at him, her lips moving soundlessly.

                "Clarice,"  his voice was soft, without any of the metallic rasp she was accustomed to hearing.  "Clarice, are you sure this is what you want to do?  Is it really my death you seek?"

                Clarice bit her now quivering lip, the tears streaming freely.  It was a hundred times worse to be forced into this position than it had been in any of her nightmares.  She barely shook her head, closing her eyes against the stinging tears.

                "Its the only way."  She whispered.  Her chin dropped to her chest, but her gun never wavered.

                His voice equally as quiet as he offered an alternative to her solution.  "You could put me in a cell, Clarice.  Lock me away from the light of day with the other monsters."

                Loose strands of coppery auburn hair swung about her face as she shook it hard.  "You and I both know I can't do that."  Clarice took a breath as if to continue, but then clamped her mouth shut.  She couldn't say that to him, she couldn't voice her thoughts on that.  Breaking the sacrament she had made to herself.  

                _And you're not a monster, Dr. Lecter…_

                Dr. Lecter nodded gravely, as if accepting her reasoning.  "My freedom, then, Clarice?  You could offer me my freedom."

                This brought her eyes up to his and he could see a great pain burning there.  "You know I can't do that, Dr. Lecter."

                "Now is not the time for moralities, Clarice."

                She couldn't lock him away, she couldn't free him, and the only acceptable solution she could think of would surely haunt them both forever.  Her finger tightened on the trigger, and she closed her eyes.  God, this was going to be painful, for both of them.

                "I have to do this Doctor."

                Silence boomed in the darkness momentarily before the reverberation of the gunshot shook them both and the hall around them.

                "Clarice!"

*~*~*~*__


	4. the sight of stars

_For my part, I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of stars makes me dream._

_- Vincent van Gogh_

_the__ sight of stars_

Twilight is slow and gentle in its approach, the first fingers of plum etching the shadows as they lengthen and stretch across the lush green yard. In the last tangerine glows of sunlight a mist is illuminated in a small garden plot edged by a white picket fence. Through the fine droplets, from just the right angle from the expansive redwood deck, a rainbow can be seen. It glows in the final moments of day, before fading to the palest of colors and then seeping into the rapidly darkening shadows. A spray of salmon melts with the orange as the sun makes its final descent over the horizon, then giving way to the late shades of indigo and amethyst.

She stands at the railing of the deck, resting her elbows on it and looking across the lawn to her garden plot. Hyacinth and roses populate along the fence, interspersed with bleeding hearts. Within this fragrant border are a tangle of wildflowers and a single large bush of lavender. It had become her refuge, her place of solitude, even amongst this secluded estate she now lived on. In the fading light she could still make out a few butterflies floating from flower to flower. The quiet hiss of the water provided a backdrop to the symphony of crickets that was now tuning up.

The first stars begin to appear high overhead, as the silver-white light of the moon begins to illuminate the upper branches of the trees that surround the house. The significance of stars is no longer lost on Clarice, but the sight of them still makes her dream. 

Stars were the vary first thing she could remember seeing after that fateful night. There are still nights when she lies awake in the king size bed in the master suite of the home wishing that they were the only things she remembered. There are nights when she comes close to screaming in desperation, trying to undo what was done. There are nights when she finds herself in her garden, hands scratched and bleeding from pushing through the rose bushes, blood from her wounds staining the crushed rose petals beneath her heels. 

But then, he is always there to rescue her.

The pressure of the muzzle against the thin cloth of her blouse. The steadily increasing weight her finger was pressing against the trigger. The light of realization coming in his eyes. 

She could still hear him call her name in desperation.

She could still feel the sudden roar of silence in her ears as she dropped bodily to the linoleum. 

Had he not been there, there would have been a single, simple word for her actions. Futility. Had he not been there the _Tattler_ would have had a field day with her suicide and Ardelia would have seen to it that she were interred in the West Virginia soil alongside her mother and oldest brother.

But then, he was always there to rescue her, even from herself when need be.

She straightens from her lazy position at the rail, stretching an aching knot of muscle in her back. As she moves there is another twinge of pressure and she presses a hand gently to her belly. She rubbed gently until the pressure eased, the twinge subsiding, and a smile crosses her face. For beneath the scar that remains from her actions resides the second miracle of life the doctor has given her. First he saved hers, then he helped her to create anew. She smiles serenely into the new fallen night as steps cross the redwood deck behind her. An arm encircles her waist, ever so gently, and draws her towards him. Warm breath blows across her ear as he whispers into it, both of them gazing upwards into the sky.

"Clarice, its after dark, come inside."

"One more minute. I want to look at the stars."

"Are they still the same?"

"They are."

~FIN~


End file.
